The gates of the capital rose high and hollow, the stone arches gleaming gold under a merciless sun. Sun Longzi passed beneath them without fanfare, flanked by two bloodied guards and caked in red that wasn't his. There were no trumpets. No palace procession. Only silence.
Which suited him perfectly.
He had ridden hard from the mountains, the scroll tube secured beneath his arm like a blade in a sheath. He wore no helmet. His long, dark hair was damp with sweat and grit, hanging over his shoulders. The scabbard at his hip was spotted with dried mud, his uniform torn at the sleeve, and reeking of smoke and iron.
He looked like a man returning from hell.
He felt like one, too.
As he crossed through the final courtyard, a steward scurried ahead to announce his arrival, disappearing into the southern wing of the palace like a rat smelling fire. Sun Longzi didn't follow. He stopped just shy of the council hall entrance, beneath a flowering paulownia tree, and listened.
